Chapter Seven
Down by the shore, there’s plenty of oohing and ahhing over the big sky and the bald eagle riding the thermals overhead. The wind carries the tang of evergreens; if I take a mouthful of the water, I’ll discover the same sharp, wintry taste on my tongue.
We’re at the north end of the Pendleton valley, where the golden-green floodplain dissolves into white-tipped crags skirted in birch and cedar.
Wide-open valley views narrow into near focus: you can only see this hillside, these trees, a single set of rapids before the river disappears around a bend.
I like the mountains for that. They don’t let you have all of themselves for free.
At our beach, the river is flat and wide, still a touch muddy from spring floods but clearing into its signature pale, chalky blue.
The top half of a cedar trails in the water nearby, its trunk twisted and split by a winter storm, spiraling strands of bark and wood still connected to the stump.
It’s broken yet whole, a tree yet not a tree.
Greenstick fracture , I think, my doctor brain flaring to life like a computer virus.
McHuge and I are treating this outing like low-stakes skill building, but today will define the rest of the session.
We’re about to discover the difference between the experience levels people reported on their intake forms and the levels they actually have, which is always an issue on adventure tours.
We want everyone to come off the water feeling good, which will be hard to pull off if we have struggling newbies next to bored experts.
I badly want everything to go right. No cracks, no flaws, nothing to criticize or exploit. No accidental swimming. One hundred percent satisfaction.
Lori and Mitch stand slightly away from the main group, scanning the setup and chatting quietly. I get the feeling Mitch prefers to hang back in a group until she knows who the assholes are. Her eyes linger on Brent.
You and me both, Mitch .
Willow’s eyes pop as McHuge effortlessly pulls a tandem canoe from the rack at the shore, then plucks a paddle and a life jacket from the supply shed. Brent notices and frowns.
Meanwhile, McHuge is playing himself to perfection.
“All right, my river otters. First and most important lesson: You will never step in the same river twice. A river is time, and you can’t go back in time.
It’s forward—or nowhere.” He likes to keep up the hippie-dippie Child of the Universe persona in public, unlike when we’re alone.
A sudden memory ripples through me: the two of us, alone. McHuge stretched out on his giant bed, hands reaching for the rustic, branch-like slats of his headboard. Eyes dark, voice darker: Call me Lyle .
It’s the worst thing to think about while watching sunny McHuge standing next to Sloane, whose first name was literally Sunshine—my dad’s only legacy—before she changed it, presumably replacing Dombrowski, her mom’s last name, with Summers as a nod to her past self.
I’m a pale copy of her in every way. Smaller, less shiny, nowhere near as warm. Even my name was chosen to contrast with hers: sunshine and stars, day and night.
I have no right, no reason to be jealous that in under thirty minutes she’s managed to establish the easy, friendly vibe with him that I couldn’t figure out in an entire year.
Sloane catches my eye and manages to nod without a flicker of a muscle: yes, she is carrying on saving my livelihood, my home, and everything I love.
I don’t need to feel so guilty. I didn’t promise her anything. But she is doing me a solid. If she’s not going to get the sisterly love she came for, I could spare some genuine gratitude, at least. I could try not to be angry with her for the childhood she didn’t choose any more than I chose mine.
I take a deep breath, conjuring a dim, gray memory of the Stellar who felt compassion for imperfect people, including herself.
“Gather ’round the tandem,” McHuge continues. “That’s the two-person canoe. This course is about relationships first, canoeing second, but we need fundamentals in place for both.
“A whitewater canoe is different from regular canoes, like a committed partner relationship is different from friendships or familial bonds. The steering is trickier and the stakes are higher. If your partner performs well, you look good. If you tip the boat and go for a swim, you take them with you.”
He looks around the circle for effect. “ And it can be the deepest, most connected relationship of your life. You, your partner, the boat—you become one entity. Solo whitewater paddling is a compromise between power and steering, but with two people you can have both— if you can move in tandem. Today’s lesson is about Getting It Together: learning what you’re starting with and imagining where you can go from there. ”
The clients push closer as McHuge demonstrates the thigh straps that hold paddlers in a half-seated, half-kneeling position, his big gestures bringing his body to life.
His straw hat dangles down his back, the chin strap stretched across the base of his throat with enough pressure to lightly dimple his skin.
My fingers twitch with the urge to smear extra sunscreen across his cheeks so I can stop watching for new freckles to appear.
When the demo moves to the canoe’s flotation system, Brent turns to the helmet locker and starts browsing. McHuge must see what’s going on, but he’s not intervening. And now Dereck, who wasn’t looking keen to get on the water in the first place, is glancing that way too.
I work my way unobtrusively around the circle to put an end to the distraction. I wish we’d made Brent pay for the course. The Love Boat needs money, for one thing. And in my experience, people can’t tell the difference between something they got for free and something that has no value.
At the hospital, I did tons of work for free, thinking it was earning me something. Respect, gratitude, collegiality, whatever. But actually, I was convincing everyone I had no idea of the value of my time, so they shouldn’t value it either.
Brent taps a helmet against Willow’s arm until she accepts it, then disappears back into the wide locker.
“We won’t need helmets until tomorrow. Brent, how about you rack those back up.” McHuge says it kindly, but a miserable flush climbs Willow’s cheeks. Brent rejoins the circle, hands empty, and nudges her toward the locker.
I sidle up to Willow, smiling through my fury. “I’ll take it,” I whisper. “Don’t miss the demo.” Looking relieved, she hands it over. I silently will her to join the circle between Lori and Mitch, but she slips in beside Brent, putting her hand into the crook of his elbow.
I think the demonstration she needs is how to leave her awful husband, who’s sandbagged her twice and we’re not even on the water yet.
Brent strikes me as no different from a lot of men who like to treat women like we don’t need autonomy or respect.
No different from my father, who thought my mom should give him everything, including the decision to abandon her daughter. His daughter.
But it’s not helpful to wish Willow would tell Brent where he can shove that helmet.
It’s better to be kind than right , my inner McHuge advises, impatience coming through in his imaginary tone.
That, and it’s better for the guests to feel smart, give us five stars on Tripadvisor, and refer their friends.
That’s what’ll keep the Love Boat alive.
“Time to get zipped and clipped! Any time we’re in the red zone—meaning whitewater and areas where it’s possible to slip, trip, or drift into whitewater—we keep our helmets buckled and life jackets secured.
As I said, no helmets today, so my…” McHuge coughs to cover his hesitation.
“My lovely fiancée will put you together with a life jacket and paddle. Choose who’s sitting in the bow, or the front, and who’s in the stern.
The stern paddler has more power to steer.
The bow paddler’s momentum makes the steering strokes effective, and they watch for obstacles ahead. Suit up, friends.”
Tomorrow, McHuge and I will be in separate boats, but today we’re demonstrating the tandem positions.
After taking care of the guests, he hefts a tandem into the water and holds the stern so I can get into the bow.
Babe gallops past, leaping into the bow with a shower of water and mud and wet dog smell.
“Out, Babe,” McHuge says, pointing at the shore. “Next time, buddy.”
Babe gives me a sour look. She squints at the shallow water, then jumps out and slopes off toward camp, ears down, belly dripping. McHuge launches us, then jumps in the stern like a bobsledder. I have to kneel in the puddle Babe left behind.
“Which side do you want?” I dip my paddle right and left.
“I’m easy.”
“Stern picks,” I say, still irritable about Brent.
“You can choose.”
This feels like a test where every response teaches him something about me. Maybe I want the camaraderie Sloane had with him, but that’s not an instinct I can trust. He and I are nothing alike. At best, we’re opposite sides of the same coin, looking away from each other for a damn good reason.
“I’d rather you chose, McHuge.”
I feel his silent sigh. “Left, then.”
He takes a stroke, the boat leaping with a surge that tugs in my belly. He’s good at following my lead, synchronizing his rhythm to mine so closely the splashes blend into a single heartbeat.
I wish I could watch him paddle and feel it at the same time. When we scouted the local rapids, his body was one with his boat and the water in an almost mythical way. He’s a fish—still until the moment he flicks his tail and disappears, mercury scales swirling into silver water.
“Circle up, everyone!” McHuge has to shout to reach Mitch and Lori, who are goofing around halfway to the middle of the channel. At this volume his voice has the commanding reverb of a Harley, and feels just as fascinating and dangerous.